


I Am Weak, My Love, I Am Wanting

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, a lot of smut, choice versus destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23764309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Calanthe begins to fear the pull of destiny. Eist reminds her that they always have a choice--and they always choose each other.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	I Am Weak, My Love, I Am Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> I...kinda added some of my own twist to canon that may or may not be actual canon. I love the idea of Calanthe and Eist meeting before Roegener's death, because I'm one of those who loves angst with a happy ending, mkay?
> 
> Title comes from Jaskier's ballad, Her Sweet Kiss.

Calanthe is still thinking about her discussion with Pavetta, after they leave the river and return to the castle. She mulls it over throughout dinner, picking and pulling at fraying edges like it’s some riddle, some puzzle to be fully solved.

Finally, she allows her most trusted advisor into her confidence.

Eist is unlacing the stays of her dress in front of the currently-unlit hearth in their private chambers when she breaks the silence, “Pavetta’s heard the rumors.”

“Which ones?” Eist makes a rather valid point. There are quite a few.

“About our attempts for children.”

“Ah.” He never stops tugging at the laces, pulling out row after row. It’s comforting, the rhythm.

She hums in agreement.

 _I’m not for bearing children anymore._ That’s what she’d told Pavetta. But she didn’t explain why. Didn’t admit that Pavetta herself is the reason, breaching and trying to kill her mother before she’d even taken her first breath, after forcing her abed for months with swelling and ill humors that had the doctors nearly bleeding Calanthe dry with leeches and supposed cures. Pavetta wouldn’t understand, would feel that her mother was somehow blaming her, resenting her. And Calanthe, never one for open declarations of feelings, knows that she can never fully impart how much she does not regret what she had to endure to bring Pavetta into this world, even if she would never dare repeat it again. Pavetta was her reward, her gift of a precious, perfect child after so many months of terror and pain.

A gift already taken from her, though she didn’t even know.

She feels that way about Eist, sometimes. That he’s here as some loan from destiny, soon to be swept away by another—death or a lover who can give him things that Calanthe can’t.

“And how do you feel about that?” Eist’s voice gently breaks the pause, heavy with compassion. He’s so tender, she could weep.

“I feel…nothing, really,” she admits. She struggles to encapsulate the rest, “But it does remind me of how much I saw her as some kind of reward from destiny or the gods or…whatever else supposedly directs our stars. And the whole time, she wasn’t even mine anymore—already claimed by someone and something else. Some cruel trick of destiny.”

“Pavetta belongs to no one but herself,” he reminds her. “Her choices aligned with destiny, it’s true. But they were her choices, all the same.”

She hums again. Still, she’s not quite reassured. Her throat tightens, almost too much to speak. But she forces herself to anyways, “I feel that way about you, sometimes.”

He pauses at that. She can almost physically feel exactly where his gaze focuses, on the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Explain.” His voice is barely audible, but the confusion and the desire to help within the command are still palpable. _Explain, so that I can reassure you. Tell me the problem so that I can solve it. Name the monster so that I can slay it._

Her lungs shiver as she takes a slow, shallow breath. Oh, this man. She aches with love for him and his kindness. He doesn’t dismiss her fears, doesn’t call her foolish, doesn’t leave her with these voices on her own.

“Just…you are….” She ducks her head, shakes it slightly, tries to start again. “I took Roegner as a husband because my crown demanded it. And I suffered through it, suffered through being pushed into his shadow and staying locked away in a castle whilst he played at war and bedded whores.”

Eist’s mouth sets in a tight line. He’d heard rumors, back in the day. Tales of Roegner’s bastards and speculations on how they could affect Pavetta’s rule, once the fierce lioness was gone. And even then, he’d been mystified as to how any man could stray from this woman, how foolish he would have to be to waste her love, to not try to gain it and keep it with all his might.

He gently places his hands on her shoulders, hoping they feel warm and solid and grounding, rather than oppressive or cold. She rolls her shoulders back slightly, as if leaning in to the touch, and he feels a measure of success. She knows he would never do such a thing. And heaven knows he’s devoted plenty of time to instilling that certainty in her.

Calanthe continues, giving a slight sigh as she remembers, “Then, he was gone, and I was free. I could be the lioness again. I worked hard to reclaim my rightful place as a queen, and then—”

She stops, needing a moment to simply breathe as her lungs tighten at the memory.

“Then…you,” her voice is so soft, so impossibly tiny that Eist almost doesn’t hear it.

He smiles softly. He remembers the first time they met. _Sparks_ couldn’t even begin to describe the absolute explosion that happened between them, fire and lightning all at once. He’d never tried to fight it, but he can imagine how hopeless it had been for her, when she was trying.

“I denied myself then, because I was so terrified of falling back into the same trap,” she admits, looking down at her hands. Now of course, she knows how foolish it seems. “And because, I thought—my crown needed me, needed me to be strong and clear-headed. Pavetta and Crach’s marriage was a convenient way to ensure that I would be further inclined to refrain from pursuing anything with you.”

He hums, already knowing this.

“And then, after everything, despite everything, there you were.”

She closes her eyes at the memory—the instant she’d been thrown across the room from the force of Pavetta’s gift, head spinning as her body ached and screamed, Eist had been at her side, hovering over her, oblivious to the danger he’d put his own self in, just to shield her. His face etched with worry and love, _so much love_ —it was then, perhaps for the first time, that she understood all his advances before had absolutely no basis in political gain, and really weren’t even born of simple lust or obsession.

It was love. _He_ was love. She’d held onto his upper arm, solid and strong and real, and even in the midst of absolute chaos, she couldn’t deny how her body reacted, how it sought him out, pulled him closer.

She understood then, too, that her own reaction wasn’t as simple as lust or obsession, either. But then again, she’d already known that for a while, though she’d tried to deny it.

“I thought—you were my destiny,” she blinks back the tears. He shifts a half-step closer, as if he wants to wrap her into his arms but doesn’t want to disturb her too much. “I thought it was my reward for everything that had been taken from me before, everything I had endured to get to that moment, with you.”

She lets her mind wander. Her gaze drifts unseeingly towards the window, where the curtains lightly stir in the late night breeze. She still feels that way, most of the time. Looking back on both their lives, the way their paths crooked and turned, just to ensure they ended up at that exact moment, together.

After a heavy pause, Eist leans in slightly, his breath stirring against the back of her neck. “And now?”

She swallows her fear and finally speaks its name, “And now…sometimes, I fear that you’re just like Pavetta. Just…marking time.”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but he knows the rest: _marking time, another gift that isn’t really mine, someone for me to hold until their true destiny arrives, until something better comes along_. As if she isn’t the best and brightest part of his life. As if loving her hasn’t been his largest adventure, as if her love hasn’t given him more than he could have ever imagined. His heart immediately raises a thousand protests, but he can understand where she’s coming from. Sometimes it does seem too good to be true, like the other shoe must surely drop, like it can’t possibly be this way forever and always.

He doesn’t remind her that, like Pavetta, he belongs to no one and makes his own choices—she knows this, and he knows that she’s inwardly reminded herself of this so many times. Instead, he merely dips his head lower, placing a small kiss on the nape of her neck.

Quietly, almost reverently, he asks, “Shall I show you just how impossible such a thing could ever be? Just how devoted I am to staying here, with you, always?”

His tone is so heavy, so full of promise—her blood hums to life, body already shivering under the light touch of his lips. She closes her eyes and simply whispers, “Please.”

The Lioness does not often plead. Eist feels another wash of anger towards all the ones who came before and made her feel so small, so unsure. Most of it is a final gift from Roegner, he knows. The sense of doubt, the idea that she could know someone for years and years and still be fooled. The idea that her sense of reality may not be true at all.

His hands slip down to her hips, pulling her closer as he nuzzles further into her neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and ginger, a combination that now forever symbolizes her in his mind. She makes a small, soft sound at the tug of his stubble on her skin, leaning back and tilting her head to give him better access. He makes another low sound of approval, testing his teeth against her neck. Her knees threaten to give out then and there, but she saves herself by rolling forward slightly, hands bracing against the stones of the hearth.

She thinks of the stones at the river, just over a week ago. Warm and rough, like his hands. Her lungs tighten at the memory.

He must be thinking along the same lines, because he quietly suggests, “Let’s go back to the river, tonight.”

They’ve been two more times, since that first lesson. And while Calanthe is genuinely learning to swim, the lessons do end with them in a distinctly different physical activity. It’s a tempting thought, but she closes her eyes and admits, “I don’t think—I don’t have the energy for swimming tonight.”

“No lessons,” he promises, placing a small kiss on her shoulder again. “Just…let me show you, please.”

She trusts him, more than she’s ever trusted anyone else. So she nods in agreement, feeling a small ripple of curiosity at his request.

He hums, approving of her acceptance, and lets his hands lazily wander over her body for a few more beats before pulling away.

“I’m not lacing that dress back up,” he informs her. “It’s just coming off soon anyways.”

She grins as she turns to face him. It’s the first time he’s seen her face since this confession, and he can still see the way anxiety forms lines on that face he loves so well, the one that commanded his heart from first glance. He feels his determination redoubling.

This is the first time they take a horse. With Pavetta safely back in Cintra, it’s less alarming if they ride out for a bit—though Eist keeps his wife hidden in the shadows, to avoid more rumors. As far as the stable boy knows, the king is simply taking a ride by himself.

Calanthe sits behind her husband, taking the opportunity to simply wrap her arms around him and bury her face into his shoulder as her fingertips lightly stroke and pull at the fabric of his tunic, gentle and comforting.

Eist places one hand over both of hers, solid and reassuring. She holds him tighter and thanks her former self yet again for finally saying yes to this man and all the love he gives, all the love he creates within her in turn.

It had never been safe, with Roegner. To pour all of herself into a romance, a relationship—it had seemed one of those things that would simply never be, no matter whom she took into her bed or her heart. Too large of a risk, too heavy with the chance of losing power, both politically and personally.

As usual, Eist is the exception. She smiles at the thought, letting her teeth come out to lightly nip at his shoulder blade through the thick fabric of his tunic, just enough to be felt.

Eist smiles. If she’s back to using teeth, she must already be feeling better. Not that he ever really expects anything to hold her down for long. He releases his hold on her hands, reaching back to lightly pat the side of her hip affectionately.

He keeps the horse at a steady walk the entire time, but it’s still faster than their own two feet. They reach the line of trees that mark the riverbank and he reins the horse to a halt, holding out his elbow so that Calanthe can use it as an anchor as she slips off. He dismounts as well and ties the reins to the nearest tree, feeling a measure of affection for the way Calanthe waits of him, not making a move until he does.

She gives, as much as she takes. People would probably be surprised to learn that about her, he thinks. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine a marriage with any woman where he was stuck either constantly being in-charge or being constantly ordered about. The balance is vital, intrinsic to their particular connection.

He just became King of Skellige, not even six months ago. Many people had raised their eyebrows at that, a few being so bold as to ask how that changed the dynamics of his marriage.

 _It doesn’t_ , he’d silenced further questions with an icy glare. The idea that their political statuses influenced their personal relationship was an insult—and the implication that Calanthe would behave like a spoiled brat if he were given equal social ranking was even more infuriating.

Granted, she does act like a brat sometimes. But those are games, with very specific intents and purposes. He grins at the thought.

This isn’t one of those games, he thinks as he turns back to her. She does look tired, more so than usual. He knows that some of it is actually relief, finally being able to fully breathe again, having Pavetta home from her travels. But Pavetta’s return also marks another event: soon, he’ll have to sail back to his throne. This is how he lives his life now, three weeks at a time—three in Cintra, followed by three in Skellige. Sometimes the length fluctuates, but he tries to maintain consistency, for everyone’s sakes.

He may have to stay a bit longer, this time. There have been increasing reports of unrest in Skelligan-controlled ports down the continental coast—particularly the Nilfgaardian province of Metinna, to the south. He and Calanthe have discussed the issue at length, and she’s well-aware that if Skellige’s jarls vote to take action, he will be forced to stay and lead them all.

He thinks of her fears again. Thinks of the fear she didn’t name, but he felt dancing at the edges of her tone during her confession, all the same: the fear of losing him to death, to war, to a watery grave with no hope of ever seeing his face again.

More than anything, he admires the courage it took for her to even begin this conversation. Calanthe is a warrior to the core—she calculates, she charges, she conquers, but she isn’t one for superfluous words or beating an issue to death with over-talk. She shows him love all the time, but generally not with words. Nor does she often feel the need to discuss their relationship—he doesn’t either, for that matter. They both know who and what they are, there isn’t much use for discussion on that front.

The fact that she brought it up in the first place is a sign that it’s been on her mind for awhile now, and he aches to think she’s spent so much time mulling it over alone. But she’s finally brought it to his attention, and that means the world to him. She trusts him enough to be this vulnerable, without fear of his response. He’ll do anything to keep that trust, that confidence she has in him.

That’s why they’re here, he reminds himself, stepping forward to gently help her navigate the steep slope to the riverbank. Her hands go to the tie of her cloak, but he quietly stops her.

“Let me, please.”

She looks up, throat tightening at the earnestness in his blue eyes, now so much darker in the night. She simply nods, her hands coming to rest by her sides. He focuses on the knot, and she simply watches his face, taking in the nuances and shadows of it all.

There’s silver, in the stubble on his jaw. It didn’t used to be there, when they first met. Nor were the deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, skin more weathered by time and sun and sea. He’s even handsomer now, she thinks with a smile. In the kind of gruff way that pulls at her lungs and makes her limbs go heavy with want, hot with the most devious thoughts.

Her cloak falls away like a weight, quickly followed by her still-unlaced dress. His hands are on her hips, gently turning her around so that he can loosen the stays on her corset.

It isn’t the first time he’s undressed her, by far. But usually there’s a bit more passion behind it, more direct intention. Right now, he’s just…soft. Gentle, as if trying not to disturb her. The tenderness only increases the odd feeling in her veins, the fear of somehow forever losing this.

He must sense her thoughts in some way, because he gently reminds her, “I’m still here.”

She nods, small and quick. He turns her back around to unclasp her corset, taking a moment to look carefully into her eyes, like a physician studying his patient. She smiles, trying to reassure him. He smiles back, and she finds her own deepening into something more genuine.

He turns his attention to her chemise, slipping it over her head and tossing it to the side. He crouches to remove her hosiery, placing a light kiss on the side of her hip before removing the garter at her knee. She steadies herself by placing a hand on his shoulder as she lifts her foot, letting him slide the hose off. He switches to the other leg, though this time, once the garter is removed, he merely rolls the top of the stocking down just a little, kissing the now-exposed inside of her knee.

She’s literally down to her last item of clothing, yet now is the moment she truly feels laid bare. He removes the stocking, setting his hands on her hips as he kisses his way up her leg, skipping over the place she’d love his lips to go—she gives a small huff of frustration and feels his smile against the sensitive skin of her stomach in response.

“Patience,” he chides teasingly. “I’m trying to remind you that I’m not just here for your physical virtues, remember?”

“Remind me later,” she suggests. He chuckles, breath gusting across her bare skin and leaving waves of gooseflesh in its wake.

He rises to his feet again, quickly divesting himself of his own clothing. She watches, never offering to help, though she enjoys the show.

Then he takes her hand and guides her to the river.

“No lessons,” he repeats, showing her that he’s remembered his earlier promise.

She smiles and follows him in. Once they’re in deeper water, he sinks down and pushes back, pulling her with him. Her legs stretch out behind her easily, much more relaxed now that she’s had a few times to grow comfortable in the water. She’s still not ready to take him on in a race (though she will be by summer’s end, she promises herself), but she can hold her own in the water now, knows how to counter his movements to help. He pulls her in closer and she relaxes further, easily turning in the water so that her chest faces the sky, her head resting on his shoulder and her arms extended to form a T.

His hands move rhythmically, lapping more water around her as they trace up her sides, down the undersides of her arms and curling around her hands, their fingertips fluttering and meeting and melding like mating butterflies. He shifts his head slightly, turning to place a kiss on the curve of her neck. It’s half skin, half water, and he loves the sensation.

He thinks of how he felt, earlier tonight, when she confessed to feeling as if she were some kind of place holder—as if all of this was just some playful pause surrounding his real life, his true destiny. He wanted to fall to his knees then and there, declare undying love and devotion, swear fealty to her always. But heaven knows, they’ve both heard it all before, and that’s not what she needs. She needs, more than anything, to be reminded of who they are.

So instead, he lets his tone fill with a low teasing, “So, you really think I’m your reward?”

He can feel her grin. “Of course, that _would_ be the part you latched on to, Eist Tuirseach.”

“What happens if you misbehave? Should I send you to bed with no Eist?”

She chuckles dryly at that. _You sure could try, dear hound. See how far that gets you._

“And what about when you’ve been very, very good?” His tone stops teasing, growing heavier with intent. His left arm wraps around her chest, squeezing her right breast as his other arm anchors at her waist, bringing her back to a standing position, pulled firmly against his body. She gives a low moan in response, knees immediately curling inward, pushing more of her hips against his. He kisses the shell of her ear as he prompts, “What should I do then?”

She merely sighs in response, eyes closed and throat dry with want (though that’s about the only part of her that’s dry now, she thinks with a wry grin).

“I’m not a toy,” he reminds her huskily. The tender edge of his tone lessens the sting of his words. “I can’t be taken or given away. I am your destiny, and you are mine—but only because we choose to make it so. You said yes, entirely of your own accord.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of all those nobles,” she breathes. Even now, she can’t resist taunting him, even as she’s squirming happily in his grasp, aching for more. “And our alliance—”

“Would have survived just fine without a marriage between us,” he cuts her off, planting another kiss just behind her ear. By now he knows just how that spot always makes her shiver, and he feels a measure of smug satisfaction when he’s proven right, yet again. “Don’t pretend you said yes out of anything other than your own free will and your realization that you wanted me more than you wanted anything else.”

His directness only sends more heat through her body, the slow burn in her hips kicking into a higher intensity, curling and pushing through her lungs like smoke from a fire.

“Admit it,” he whispers. His left thumb is rubbing circles around her right nipple, only increasing the tightening feeling, each rough pass filling her with more need. His right hand is on her hip bone, tracing the same circular pattern. It’s maddening and soothing at the same time. She arches, relishing the feeling of his body against hers—both of them fully submerged is still a novel feeling, and she wonders at it, every time. Her marveling is interrupted by his teeth nipping at the edge of her jaw again, his words hot against her skin, “Admit it, Calanthe.”

There’s a raw edge to the way he says her name, and she thinks she may just sink to the bottom of the river like a stone, so heavy with desire. She closes her eyes and lets her head sink back against his shoulder, easily accepting defeat, “I would have chosen you, no matter what.”

“Because…”

“Because I wanted you, more than I wanted anything else,” her voice is so raspy that it’s barely a whisper, but he’s so close that she knows he can hear every word.

“Exactly.” There’s a smugness in his tone that would normally have her rolling her eyes, but right now it’s merely fuel to an already-raging fire.

Then his hands are moving, slipping to her hips and turning her around effortlessly in the water. He sinks slightly lower, allowing them to be nose to nose—even in the darkness, she can see his eyes so clearly, can see the unmistakable determination in them.

“And I chose you—because I want you, more than anything else.”

His use of the present tense doesn’t escape her notice.

“I choose my own destiny,” he informs her, absolutely serious. “It is always you.”

Her eyes are shimmering and she offers a small, lopsided smile. He’s instantly reminded of the night she said yes, how she looked at him exactly like that before handing over her sword. Silently begging forgiveness before she’d even done anything, already afraid of losing him then, when they were little more than flirtatious allies.

He lets his fingertips trace the edge of that heartbreaking smile, droplets of water slipping down her skin at each point of contact. He leans closer, placing a staying kiss on the lines at each side of her mouth. She breathes out a sigh at the contact, eyelids fluttering closed as she quietly accepts his affections.

She’s so unbearably soft, he thinks as he kisses his way down her neck and across her collarbone. He wonders how no one else could see this in her—while he has always known that she is a fierce and forceful thing, he’s also somehow always known that this side of her existed as well. Was it simply because somehow, even in the beginning, she trusted him more than others, trusted him enough to let every facet of her true self show? Was it truly fate, or destiny, something she couldn’t fight, even then? Was it divinely inspired insight on his behalf, some guiding star revealing things to him so that he could properly fall in love with her?

Eist Tuirseach has a healthy dose of superstition, and a goodly amount of respect for those who can commune with the world beyond the seen—certainly more so than his pragmatic and doubting wife. But even he rankles at the idea that his choice to love her was predirected and predestined.

Right now, she still looks sad, her dark eyes heavy with emotion and devoid of the spark and fire that he adores. So, he simply kisses her forehead, decreeing, “I choose you, with your insufferable need to win even the pettiest of competitions. With your awful snoring—”

“I do not—”

“And your constant quips at poor Mousesack’s expense—”

“He deserves it. Every one.”

“—and your abysmal swimming skills—”

“Blame my teacher.”

He laughs at that, feeling a larger measure of joy at how her own face is shining happily. She bites her lip as she smiles at him, as if she’s realized exactly what he was doing with his teasing.

“You really are too good to be true sometimes, dear hound,” she informs him, tone raspy with emotion.

He hums, pulling her in closer again, his skin reigniting with electricity at the way their bodies slide together. “I strive not to be _too_ good, dear queen.”

She grins wickedly at this, shifting just enough to grind up against his hardening cock. “So I see.”

She leans in but he easily turns her around in the water again, feeling a spike of glee at her growl of disapproval. He wraps his arms around her midsection, easily lifting her further out of the water so that she’s slightly higher than he is, his mouth at the perfect point to nip and kiss at her shoulder blade.

“What on earth are you doing?” Her breathless tone approves, despite her confusion.

He grins and places another kiss on her back. “Just enjoying you.”

She hums, obviously pleased with the answer. He lets one arm stay, keeping her in place, as his other hand trails down her hip, lightly brushing down the inside of her thigh. She shivers, legs widening just a fraction, almost involuntarily.

Then he loosens his grip, letting her body slide back down his until they’re at their usual heights, his mouth trailing up the entire time, from spine to neck to temple. She turns her head to the side, pressing further into his kiss. His lips stay there, at her temple, as if he could possibly brand his love into her skin, lungs gratefully inhaling the scent of her hair as he closes his eyes. His hands are wandering her body, easily slipping over familiar sites of worship that feel entirely new in the water, the heat of her skin feeling delicious under the cooler current of the river.

Calanthe closes her eyes, almost comfortable enough to doze off. Eist is warm and solid against her back, his hands’ gentle movements practically soothing her into a trance.

 _Let me, please_. His words from earlier echo in her mind. Despite the need pounding through her body, despite the desire to turn around and kiss him senseless, she wills herself to relax further into his touch. To just…let him.

The silence settles in, and Calanthe slowly becomes aware of an entire new world around them. Usually they’re busy teasing or splashing—for the first time, she notices how the cicadas hum from the nearby trees, the hoarse cry of the fox miles away, the soft chirps of the night birds, the way the trees ripple under the breeze, leaves rattling lightly. The water laps around her shoulders, eddying from the movements of Eist’s hands underwater, almost like the first tinkling notes on a harpsichord.

She realizes why he wanted to come here, tonight. It’s part of the point he’s trying to prove. This place belongs to them, only them. The entire situation surrounding their late-night swimming lessons focuses on that premise—they choose to be here, with each other. This is something only they share, something none of their previous lovers or spouses have experienced with them, something entirely unique to their personal history together.

They are here because in some way, they each chose this to make the other happy. It’s a choice they make quite often, she realizes.

“Thank you,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond, never moving his lips from her temple. But his hands tighten around her hips for a beat, before resuming their leisurely wandering. “Thank you for making me feel…chosen.”

His throat tightens at the way her voice drops off, barely a whisper but so heavy with grateful reverence. She’s being so vulnerable right now, it only makes him want to protect her more.

Calanthe’s life has been defined by a distinct lack of choices. Her parents both would have been happier with another heir, preferably a male one, but she’d been the only child, the only choice. No man wanted her as a wife, despite her crown and her vast and plentiful kingdom. Roegner had been her only choice, and he’d agreed to choose her in return simply because of the upgraded social standing.

Eist wonders, rather heartbrokenly, if at any point in her life, Calanthe has ever felt like someone’s first choice, a willing choice.

Well, she’s certainly going to feel it tonight.

“Did I ever tell you about the Jarl of Hindarsfjall, from Clan Heymaey?”

She gives a small hum of curiosity.

“She was a lovely woman. Rather tall, and deadly with an axe. Still is, truthfully.”

He feels her shift slightly in his arms, a bit more alert at the new information. He can practically hear her mind screaming, _She?_

“Her first husband died as well. Just a few years before Roegner.” Eist keeps his hands moving, reassuring his wife that this is a story she wants to hear. He continues, “Bran wanted me to marry her. A political thing, as her family’s line was the second most powerful claim to the throne.”

“But you didn’t,” Calanthe supplies, obviously well aware of that plot point, at least.

“I didn’t,” he agrees warmly. He presses his lips to her ear. “Because I had already met you. For the very first time, just before.”

She closes her eyes at the longing in his tone, her own heart quickening at the memory. It had been a quick introduction at a feast, nothing more. Eist had barely stepped into his role as Jarl of Skellige, his brother Bran only recently crowned king and determined to forge alliances with the continent. Roegner had invited the young jarl to attend a meeting of various emissaries, rather eager to gain the support of Skellige’s infamous fleet.

“But—I was married,” she points out. “And we had—”

“Only met once, briefly,” Eist finishes. “I know. But it didn’t matter. You see, I knew that my heart was gone from my own keeping forever. It didn’t matter if I never saw you again, or if I never had the chance to act upon my feelings. All that mattered was that I knew I could never feel that way about anyone else, even if I tried. So it was better to simply be alone.”

“You were an idiot,” she breathes. He can feel the smile in her tone. “And for that, I am grateful. I so would have hated to go all the way to Hindarsfjall to murder a jarl and steal her husband.”

“Yes, you do hate the cold,” he agrees, smirking as he places a kiss on her shoulder. She hums in amusement, knowing Hindarsfjall stays particularly cold, year round.

“I do,” she repeats. After a slight beat, she adds, “Is this true? This story?”

“Of course.”

“You had no hope of…anything, with me, ever.” She processes the concept, almost dumbstruck. Eist hums in affirmation. She blinks again. “And yet…”

“And yet,” he kisses her shoulder again. “Here we are.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I didn’t know. Not at all. I wish I had, sometimes—at least then it might have been less miserable, knowing I was stuck in a situation that might eventually resolve itself in my favor.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“It didn’t seem necessary.”

She hums, considering this. “But it is necessary now.”

“Yes. Because you seem to think that I didn’t have choices, and I did. And I need you to know that I have been choosing you, for even longer than I have been begging you to be my wife.”

She grins at that. “You are a man of persistence, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m hoping you’ll give me more than just that,” he informs her, arms wrapping fulling around her chest to pull her into him again, biting her neck. She melts and sighs happily, fulfilling his wish already as she allows his lips to map the line up to her jaw.

“I suppose that depends on what you give me,” she purrs. He laughs, shaking his head slightly at her incorrigible ways. He rocks his hips against her ass and she gives a small burble of delight. With a pleased smirk, she decrees, “Well, that’s a rather nice start.”

“That’s not the half of it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he grins. The corner of her mouth slides higher, revealing more teeth, and his heart soars in victory at the lazy smile. He can feel the languid heaviness of her body, knows every single muscle is relaxed, fully certain that he’ll hold her up, he’ll support her completely.

Good. Now that point is proven, on to the next.

He scoops her in his arms and wades to shore. She makes a fluttering sound of surprise, curling further into him.

“Careful on the rocks,” she warns him.

“If I break my leg, then I’ll be forced to stay in Cintra until it heals,” he points out. She seems to consider this idea, grinning in sudden approval. He shakes his head with a light chuckle, “Wicked woman.”

“It’s your fault for putting the image in my head,” she returns easily. Her grin deepens and darkens. “You, confined to bed all day for weeks? Sounds absolutely delicious.”

She leans in a little, nipping at the side of his jaw. She’s still so careful, trying not to upset his balance or actually make him stumble. He grins at the juxtaposition—even now, what the Lioness says and what she truly wants are two totally different things.

Still, he rolls his eyes at her words, “As if I don’t tumble into bed every time you crook your finger.”

She hums in agreement, quite happy with the truth. “Yes, but—it would save me all the tedious expense of tracking you down and dragging you back there in the first place.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of efficiency.”

“Basically, yes.”

He takes a beat to merely look at her. She’s smiling too warmly to even feign a serious expression. Both of their grins deepen. He tightens his hold around her and she dips her head further onto his shoulder.

It is times like now, in moments of silliness, that he knows her love is real. The staying kind. The Lioness of Cintra is not known as a woman of muted passion in any realm, and he knew long before their marriage that she would blow his mind with her fierce way of loving (she did and she does). But he hadn’t quite expected the tender times, the times in which she was truly vulnerable, truly herself, simply being ridiculous or open in ways that no one else got to see.

Calanthe isn’t a dull tack—she’s already noted that they’re moving to the opposite shore, and more importantly, directly to a particular set of rocks. The heat in her blood spikes at the memory of their first swimming lesson, Eist beneath her on those very rocks, giving himself to her so beautifully.

She already understands the point he’s trying to make— _I’m yours, and you are mine. Just as you have made me your own, I will make you mine_.

She’s never been one for the idea of ownership, when it comes to lovers. It was one of the main reasons she abstained from remarrying for so long, after Roegner’s death, despite the whingeing pleas from her advisors, the bald and pointed conversations about her age and her fertility and how neither were moving in a favorable direction, despite the potential flux it put her kingdom in. The idea of being claimed, yet again, was chafing.

Chafing is certainly not the sensation she feels now. Her pulse is thrumming, breath already quickening. She doesn’t ask, because while she has a premonition, she doesn’t want to know entirely, not until it’s happening. Eist knows how to play up anticipation like a master musician upon an instrument, she’d never take away a chance for him to show off his skills.

The river is something they share only with each other—but if there is a particular spot that’s a true monument to it all, it’s here.

Eist lowers her to her feet, now that the water is around their calves. His arm stays around her waist, hand heavy on her hip as he guides her forward. Every step, every moment closer to something wonderful, brings more tension coiling through her body.

He gently brings her to a stop, head dipping so that his lips can brush over the curve of her shoulder as he asks again, “Shall I show you?”

She shivers at the question, at the heat of his breath against her skin. She swallows thickly, nodding numbly in response.

It’s the pause, the way he actually takes the moment to ask again, to make sure this is something she wants, too, that truly has the most effect. There had been plenty of men who thought one yes was enough to cover everything, who sought pleasure from her with little mind of what might please her in return—but as always, Eist doesn’t fit into the narrative of her past lovers. He has proven, quite thoroughly, that his greatest desire is ensuring that she finds as much delight in these acts as he does, and that token of care speaks to her soul in ways that she can’t fully describe.

Yes, he chooses her, and her happiness, always. She ducks her head, smiling a bit like a blushing young maiden as he moves her forward, hand at the base of her spine and slowly moving up, lightly guiding her to lean over the warm, rough rock—the very one he’d been leaned up against, the one she’d pushed her hands into as she’d claimed him, their first night here. It's at least three feet tall, and just as wide. Easy enough to truly lay upon.

The warmth of the stone makes her shiver, the coarseness against her skin makes her exhale in a soft, slow breath. She thinks of earlier tonight, her hands on the hearth—yes, this is the sensation she’d recalled, the thing she’d wanted and he somehow understood, without words or explanation. She leans forward even more, letting her torso stretch over the rock as she closes her eyes. Eist’s left hand is still lazily roving over her back and shoulders, as if mapping out every inch. His right hand is at her hip, steady and reassuring.

There’s no rush to his movements. No intent, either, really. He’s just…enjoying her. Savoring the moment, the simple sensation of touching her. The happiness in her chest feels heavier than the rock beneath it, just as warm and solid. She turns her head, letting her right cheek rest against the stone.

 _Chosen_. She feels it. She knows it. Not an accident of fate, not the only path left to take. He had all the world at his feet, and what he wanted, more than anything, was to sit at hers. She closes her eyes and trembles with emotion.

He’s closer now. She feels the shift, the warmth of his body radiating against hers as he leans in, kissing her cheek, her ear, her shoulder, down the line of her spine. Each kiss becomes firmer, more of a press, as if he’s leaving an imprint under her skin. She can’t help the little sounds that slip out of her throat as he continues—though she doesn’t truly try to stop them anyways. He loves the sound of her, she knows, and she loves giving him these small gifts, these little reminders that yes, she feels the love he gives and she loves the way it feels.

His teeth come out to nip her arse and she hums at that. Then his hands are at her thighs, pushing them further apart. The rock drags across her skin and she whimpers, already overwhelmed and aching for more.

She’s so firmly against the rock that she can’t really buck when his tongue slides into her folds, easily finding her clit. Her arms try to find a way to better hold on, to circle around the rock as her knees already begin to feel weak. She tries to remember to breathe as his tongue continues in slow, deep rolls and pushes, each swirl sending banners of heat through her hips. His hands tighten against the backs of her thighs, keeping her steady, keeping her in place as he continues.

 _Shall I show you?_ His voice still teases in her mind. Oh, she sees, she believes. This man asked permission to do whatever he wanted, and _this_ was part of it—to be on his knees, giving her such unrepentant adoration.

Again, this is why she trusts him more than any other. When granted control and dominion over her body, his first thought is to simply give, not take. That’s nearly enough to make her come, on its own. Not that she’d be able to test that theory, as Eist’s tongue continues its steady pace.

Wrapped around a rock, it’s rather hard to quiver and react in the ways she normally does. It’s novel and somehow quite lovely, feeling so disoriented in how her body reacts to such familiar sensations. She presses her cheek harder against the rock, moaning at the way his lips and teeth suck and nip just enough to shatter her, one foot popping up out of the water as her body tries to release the tension any way that it can. She falls apart in a disjointed, breathless mess, feeling perfectly safe in the grip of his hands.

He shifts again, rising to his feet. His hands are slipping up her spine again, as if silently reassuring himself that she’s still alright. She hums in warm approval, shifting back just enough to push against him, to let him know that he can continue— _please gods, please continue_ —because she’s honestly not sure her lungs can work properly enough to verbally inform him.

His hands are at her hips again, and she can’t help the small sound of anticipation she makes at the simple touch. Then he’s lifting her, just slightly, pushing inside and pushing all the air from her lungs.

Eist takes a beat to wait, to watch the way Calanthe’s shoulders tense and flex, to let his own body recover from the white-hot delight of sliding into that familiar wet heat. He feels her tighten around him, blood pounding so fervently in his ears that he can barely hear the little needy, almost-feral sound she makes in response.

He knows how rough the rock is—after their first night here, Calanthe had noted the light scuffing along his back and shoulders, from being rocked up against it, under the duress of her hips. And her knees had suffered a similar fate. He wonders if it’s too rough—though he knows that if it were, she’d let him know. Though perhaps that’s some of the allure for her, he thinks. She's always been one to like teeth with her kisses.

Once they’d returned to the castle that first night, they’d salved each other’s skin and shared soft, warm smiles. Like they’d somehow invented something new, together. Sometimes, he thinks it might be true. Could anyone, anywhere, have ever learned this sort of alchemy, recreated this heady magic that they have learned together? He can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine anything, or anyone, who could possibly compare.

As if proving his theory, he lets his fingers tighten their grip, flexing deeper into the softness of her hips. Slowly withdraws, slowly pushes further into her again. She curls slightly, twittering and lifting her hips slightly as she arches, pushing more of her chest against the rock. Seeking it out, confirming his suspicion that she's enjoying the sensation.

Still, it’d be a shame to damage—even temporarily—such a beautiful chest, he thinks with a slight smirk. And what might feel deliciously divine now, may feel far less-than, later.

So he keeps his right hand firmly at her hip, but places his left just above the small of her back. Anchoring her, pinning her in place so that she doesn’t shift and slide as much against the rock’s rough surface. It’s a little more work, but worth it.

For all his giving before, Calanthe understands that now, Eist is truly taking—taking her, taking his fill as he begins to move again. His left hand presses a bit harder into her spine, and she can feel her own rush of wet heat in response. She wills herself to stay put, to let him take, to let him show her just how he chooses her, again and again.

It’s like waves in his beloved sea. There are moments when it is easy to relax, to give her body over to the steady, familiar pull of his body inside hers, smiling at the sounds they make. But there’s always a wave that pulls out and builds up, ready to come crashing forward again.

That wave begins to truly build, not quite surging yet. She can hear herself, hear the pants becoming sharper, louder, more desperate—and suddenly, more than anything, she wants to see his face, to feel him, to be connected as much as possible.

Her right arm tries to tighten around the rock, to hold herself steady as her left hand swings back, blindly searching. She connects with his left hand, still pressing into her back, and her fingers curl around the tense tendons of his wrist, fingernails biting into flesh as she holds on like a drowning woman. Her feet are lifting again, calves curling inward, trying to wrap around his legs as much as possible.

She’s far too overwhelmed to lift her head, instead pushing her cheek harder against the stone. He’s thrusting harder and faster now, and he can’t keep her from shifting up and down the rock, the rough friction making her hiss and cry out at the delicious feeling.

This is how she’s always wanted to be wanted. How she’s wanted to be chosen—with abandon, with reckless intensity, with might and power and overwhelming love, without reserve or hesitation. For so long, she’d convinced herself that it couldn’t be possible, that it could never exist, not within the confines of this world and her place in it.

And then, this. _Him_. This precious gift of a man, of an equal, of a lover and a warrior. He’d kill for her and he’d die for her and he just might well be the death of her, and she can’t imagine ever wanting anything more.

She hadn’t even allowed herself to hope for this much, even on the night that she did choose him, publicly and personally. Even now, after nearly three years, she still isn’t always able to simply let herself hope for these moments. But he always finds ways to give them to her, all the same.

In this moment, she truly understands how foolish she’s been, in all her worries. Because he’s right—they’ve mastered their own fates, against all odds. And he, this man of passion and power, could never be swayed beyond exactly what he wants, could never be forced into anything other than exactly what he chooses.

Her. He chooses her.

His hands on her hips, jerking her closer, further down the rock, pull her back into the moment. She can hear his breathing, can feel the tension in his movements—he’s so close, and she feels her body responding in kind.

Eist, as usual when it comes to his wife, has long given up hope of anything other than completely devolving into an animalistic mess. He angles her hips so that she’s fully pinned down, knowing full well that she’ll stay exactly like that (again, this is the part that most people don’t get to see—how good and compliant she can be, when the moment calls for it), then braces his hands on the rock, allowing himself more leverage for the final thrusts.

Her shoulder blades are shifting again, a beautiful landscape of tension and shadow as both of her hands come down, fingers wrapping around his wrists, giving her the anchor she needs to push further into him. She’s whining and panting and he knows he’s nearly making as much noise as she is, and that only builds the tension inside him.

She’s twisting her head again, trying not to disturb the perfect angle they’ve created but still trying to see him, out of the corner of her eye.

He doesn’t know why, but that’s always the part that gets him. How much she loves watching him, loves seeing him come undone. How much she wants him to see the same in her, to show him just what he does to her, in exquisite detail.

The muscle from her shoulder to her neck is beginning to pull—oh it’s about to tense up entirely, in screaming agony, she knows, but it’s worth it, she decides. She can see him, barely but just enough, looming over her, outlined by the moonlight. Seeing his body move and feeling the result only adds to the overwhelming surge in her veins. He looks so desperate, so divinely out of control, just as strung out and feral as she feels. It’s enough to push her over the edge again. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep her eyes open, to watch him as he watches her fall apart underneath him. She’s still quaking when he comes undone as well, and she feels another wave of aftershocks at the mere sight of him, at the feeling of him coming inside her.

She’s won battles, she’s literally held the severed head of her enemy up before a roaring crowd of soldiers, she’s been heralded at courts and festivals, she’s been plied with the highest, floweriest compliments.

Nothing satisfies her quite like the look he always wears, just after. Soft and exhausted and still pounding with adrenaline. It’s higher praise than anything else, and it affects her more than any other form of accolade.

He slips out of her, and her body goes slack with relief. He leans in, nuzzling between her shoulders and simply inhaling, not truly leaving a kiss at all. Her vise-like grip on his wrist turns to silk, fingertips lightly whirling around his pulse points, slowly pulling him back to earth.

“Fuck,” he breathes reverently, mouth still just above her skin.

She hums. “Yes, I think we rather did.”

She feels him shaking over her, laughing silently at her snark. His teeth come out, lightly testing the edge of her shoulder blade. His kisses are open-mouthed, breath still heavily gusting over her skin. Her body's too exhausted to shiver in response.

He pushes off the rock, back onto his feet, though he’d much rather collapse into a bed and sleep for a century. Mildly, he realizes that he’d never truly enjoyed a deep night’s sleep until taking the queen into his bed—or being taken into hers, more aptly. He grins at the reality that she probably wouldn’t take too kindly to being considered a sedative.

Gingerly, she’s shifting as well, hands coming up to push off the rock. He puts his hands on her hips, gently helping her down.

“C’mere,” he turns her around, already crouching down slightly to survey the damage.

Now is when she blushes, as if she’s some young girl being read her first love poem.

“Not too bad,” he decrees. He takes a beat to lightly kiss her left breast, just below the nipple. “You should still put a bit of salve on, I think.”

She looks down, too, a bit surprised to see that while her skin is a bit pink, it’s not nearly as scraped as her knees had been. She knows it’s mainly due to his careful attentions—how he thinks of her, even when he’s nearly-desperate to fulfill his own needs and desires.

His hands are stroking down her sides, loving and caring as always. He’s kneeling now, truly looking over her stomach and thighs for any broken skin, squinting slightly in the shadowy light.

Her hands go to his hair, lightly tugging and ruffling. An adoring grin quirks across her face.

 _Shall I show you just how impossible such a thing could ever be? Just how devoted I am to staying here, with you, always?_ His words echo in her mind, now forever imprinted upon her heart.

“How on earth am I supposed to let you return to Skellige?” She asks, tilting her head to one side. It’s a question she asks rather often, truth be told.

He rises to his feet again, pulling her close, “With a heart full of certainty that I shall return, as always.”

Now her grin becomes wicked. “I’d happily trade an absent husband and a heart full of certainty for a present husband and a cunt full of—”

He’s laughing as he kisses her, amused and exasperated. She hums into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck, holding him closer.

“You won’t lose me,” he reminds her, tone laced with gentle compassion. “It’s simply impossible.”

She closes her eyes, feeling the hot swell of tears.

She believes. Despite it all, despite herself, she believes. Because just as he is hers, she is his. Because even if her grip loosened, somehow, he would still be there, holding on to her.

She warms at the realization that he is holding on to her, even now—his arms are wrapping around her, pulling her into his chest. Her arms tighten around his neck, returning the embrace. He presses a hard, staying kiss onto her forehead, just at her hairline. She pushes against his lips, closing her eyes again. This time, a tear escapes.

No, after everything, in spite of everything, she still doesn’t believe in destiny, she realizes. She believes in choice.

And she has been chosen. Wonderfully, miraculously, passionately chosen.


End file.
